


onward march

by Ireliss



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: AR Febuwhump (Alex Rider), Adult Alex Rider, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Happy birthday Alex Rider, Hiding Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Mild Gore, Self-Esteem Issues, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: A knife to the ribs isn’t exactly what Alex would have chosen as a twenty-first birthday present. Running into Yassen Gregorovich whilst he’s injured and in the middle of trying to escape - even less so.Written for Febuwhump Day 13: Hiding Injury.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Comments: 28
Kudos: 136
Collections: AR Febuwhump 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [Lil_Lupin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Lupin/pseuds/Lil_Lupin) for running the event and for their incredible beta work, not to mention their help with the summary!

It is a dismal night on the twelfth of February and the clock is inching towards midnight. Inside a squat office building on the outskirts of London, Felix Irving is still hard at work. Although only eighteen years of age, it’s already been two years since Felix dropped out of secondary school and he’s been working a variety of odd jobs ever since. At this precise moment he is employed as a janitor. Despite the late hour, the lights are still on, several workers sitting ensconced in their cubicles and security making the occasional listless patrol.

Felix works diligently around them all. Dust, sweep, mop, clean. Dull, mindless work, but Felix isn’t bored. Far from it. If anyone pays attention, they might be surprised by the watchful light in Felix’s brown eyes, half-hidden under his messy blond hair. An even closer look would reveal the livewire tension humming through Felix’s body, a body that is surprisingly toned under the shapeless grey jumpsuit.

But of course, nobody looks closely at the janitorial staff, especially when it’s the Wednesday graveyard shift and energy at the workplace sags to an all-time low. Therefore, nobody realises Felix Irving does not actually exist.

Felix’s real name is Alex Rider. He is aged twenty – two years older than the less threatening age listed on Felix’s CV – and has spent the past six years working for MI6 with varying degrees of willingness, progressing from a conscripted teenager into a field agent with proper credentials and a salary complete with contributions to a workplace pension Alex is unlikely to live long enough to see.

It is at MI6’s behest that Alex is here tonight. Stowing away his mop, Alex does a final check of the corridor, satisfied by the sparkling wet gleam of the floor and the neon yellow "CAUTION! WET FLOOR" sign planted right in the middle of the hall. Nobody in the building can accuse Felix of a sloppy job. Pushing the janitorial cart in front of him, Alex continues down the hallway until he reaches the very end: a single, solitary room, guarded by an opaque glass door reinforced by an alarm. This is Alex’s target tonight.

With the key Felix was helpfully given for his cleaning duties, the door’s lock turns with barely a sound and the door swings open, revealing a room cooler than the rest of the building. The room is not a large one, and it’s made even more claustrophobic by the imposing racks that stretch from floor to ceiling. Rows and rows of neat black servers rest on top of the racks. The humming of electronics fills the room, a sharper whirr on top of the constant background roar of the extensive cooling systems hard at work.

This room is the heart of Teradata Analytics, a finance company that acts as a cover for much less savoury dealings. Alex’s mission tonight is to sabotage one of these upcoming dealings, but – as MI6 had stressed – it must be done _circumspectly_.

("You do know this isn’t my area of expertise, right?" Alex had said.

His handler had given him a dry look over the rim of her spectacles. "Yes, Rider, we know all about your skills in foiling doomsday plots by madmen. But let’s try to head things off this time before it gets to the international crisis stage, shall we?")

Easier said than done. The server room is filled with surveillance cameras pointing at him from every angle, the wink of their lenses a cold, oppressive presence. Alex bends over the janitorial cart, pretending to fiddle with his tools. In reality, his hands are busy preparing one of Smithers’ gadgets. No more colourful, creative toys for him these days; Alex is too old for those now. Instead, the device he’s holding is small and unobtrusive, an unremarkable metal circlet designed to be affixed onto a wire. From there, it can then be remotely activated by MI6 to disrupt the connection between server and power supply, knocking out the Teradata servers at strategic times. There are twelve of these gadgets hidden in Alex’s cart, ready to be deployed.

Avoiding the cameras is the tricky part. Alex puts every bit of his dexterity to work as he wipes down the server racks, using the microfiber cleaning cloth to hide the movement of his hands and the suspicious glint of the MI6 gadgets as he secures them in place. Despite the cool air of the room, a bead of sweat trickles its way down Alex’s forehead. He’s already been in the office compound for two, almost three hours, spending that entire time in plain sight. There are no less than five surveillance cameras trained on him right at this moment. He’s horribly exposed.

Luckily for Alex’s blood pressure, there’s not much longer to go. Just one more row to clean and four gadgets lef-

The door to the server room opens. The sound is barely audible over the constant hum of the servers and the cooling fans, but Alex has survived in the field since he was fourteen; no small detail goes unmissed. As tempting as it is to snap into action, Alex forces himself to look up sluggishly, the picture of an overworked employee who just wants to be done for the night. 

As the man comes into view, Alex immediately sees that all the acting in the world won’t do him much good here.

With his unshaven face and rough haircut, the man is an unruly presence against the sterile geometry of the server room. Alex mentally dubs him Scruff. Although he’s not wearing a uniform, Alex’s instincts tell him that Scruff is security of some sort; there’s just something about his posture that screams authority, the smug, bullying sort of authority here to throw his weight around and pick a fight. A mercenary, Alex intuits. Extra, _unofficial_ security for the upcoming deal, the sort of security not beholden to laws or oversight.

Scruff swaggers closer. At least he's not openly carrying a gun, and Alex doesn't see the tell-tale shape of a holster under the tight black jacket that strains against a muscular chest and broad shoulders. Which doesn’t mean much, Alex thinks gloomily. The situation can take a turn for the worse very quickly. Scruff has the air of someone bored and sloppy after hours sitting in front of a computer screen – in other words, incoming trouble. Alex should have known better than to hope Teradata Analytics would stick to hiring professionals; it's always the human factor that sends a mission going to shit.

"Sir?" Alex sets down the microfiber cloth cautiously, hiding the MI6 gadgets from view.

"You. You've been here for ages," Scruff growls. "That other guy, he never takes this long cleaning."

"If you have a problem, you can take it up with my boss," Alex replies with all the long-suffering weariness of someone looking to finish work and drag himself home.

Scruff narrows his eyes. "Are you up to something, kid? Where's the usual guy, huh?"

"Called in sick."

"He's never taken this long to clean," Scruff says again, as if Alex could possibly have missed it the first time with the way Scruff is seething, spittle flying from his mouth. "Are you lazy, or just slow in the head?"

Scruff steps even closer. For the first time Alex sees something that he should have noticed before. Under the raggedy bangs, there's a wild, restless look to Scruff, like a spooked horse showing the white of its eyes. Scruff isn't _bored_ – he’s afraid.

More complications to deal with. Alex transfers his grip to his broom. "Look, what do you want?"

"I want you to get out of here. Yeah?"

Four more of Smithers’ gadgets left to plant. Alex chews his lip. "But I'm not done yet. I don't want trouble, OK? Just let me finish up, and-"

"No!" The wild look in the Scruff’s eyes becomes more pronounced. "Something's going on here tonight and I don't like it. I want you out of here, right now."

"But my boss-"

And then Alex sees it. A shiny black handle and the wicked curving edge of a knife blade, appearing in Scruff's hand so quickly it's as though he's conjured it from thin air. Alex tightens his grip on the heavy wooden shaft of his broom.

Scruff advances, brandishing his knife. "I warned you."

It's not often that people progress to whipping out a knife _that_ quickly, Alex reflects, glancing rapidly around the room. Every instinct is screaming at him to get out, but if there’s still a chance he can deescalate the situation-

Scruff lunges. Alex springs back, keeping the janitorial cart as a barrier between him and Scruff. "Calm down!" He shouts, wincing as the knife slashes through the air barely a foot away from his face. "There’s some mistake!"

The only response he gets is a string of filthy swearing. Scruff backs up a step, but Alex can read his body easily – the muscular man is preparing to go in for another attack.

Alex doesn’t give him the chance. Broom in hand, Alex shoves the rest of the cart at Scruff, the heavy trolley hitting Scruff right in the stomach before careening wildly off to the side. The server racks rattle ominously.

Swiftly, Alex backs away, heading for the exit, but Scruff is already recovering quicker than he had thought possible. The man must have a body of steel. Alex raises his hands and tries to look non-threatening, still hoping against hope that he can get this mission back on track somehow. "Sir, please-"

Scruff _launches_ himself at Alex, a running jump that is a full, desperate offence with no thought for defence. The knife swings in a vicious arc, sharp blade glinting under the halogen lights. Alex pivots away, but caged in on both sides by towers of server racks, there's no room to dodge. A line of fire blazes against his side; Alex grits his teeth, feeling the agonising scrape of metal again bone as the knife glances off his ribs. Fuck.

Right. Change of plan. The mission’s beyond salvaging. Alex clicks into full survival mode: get out alive, erase signs of MI6's tampering, cause some chaos to cover his tracks.

Scruff’s already coming at him again, knife swinging wildly, a crazed look in his eyes. What had even set him off in the first place? "You little rat," he snarls, "I knew it, I knew you were the distraction-"

This time, Alex brandishes his broom, swinging the heavy shaft like a stave. The long wooden pole hooks against a mass of wires and Alex _pulls_ , sending a clatter of two, three servers crashing onto the floor with a deafening bang as the fans whine and whir in protest. Scruff roars a curse as he jumps out of the way, only to slam into the racks on his opposite side. Something sparks ominously.

Pressing his advantage, Alex thrusts out the broom handle in another wide sweeping arc. More hardware clatters to the floor, followed by a howl of pain that cuts through the frantic electronic hum of the room. One of the servers had landed right on Scruff’s foot.

In the chaos, Alex brings the broom handle down right over the top of the Scruff’s head with a sharp crack. Scruff sways on his feet, then topples over. He doesn't get up again.

Taking shallow, pained breaths through his mouth, Alex takes a step back, surveying the situation. The violence lasted only a few seconds and already stillness is descending again, the contrast like a shock of cold water. Most of the room remains sterile and pristine, the servers humming quietly in their ordered rows. But the area around Alex’s immediate vicinity is a completely different story: dangling wires, shattered hardware, and most damningly of all, the unconscious man slumped on the floor with a knife dangling from his grasp. Spots of blood splash darkly against the polished flooring.

A low, electronic beeping starts up from one of the fallen pieces of hardware, and Alex knows he has no time to waste.

With his cover blown to pieces, there’s no more need for subtlety. There’s a burning sensation in his side – something that spikes with pain every time he moves – but Alex ignores it in favour of smashing open the racks, tearing the cabling apart and sending more hardware toppling to the ground. By the time he’s done, there are enough loose wires in the room to stop a charging bull in its tracks. More importantly, all of MI6’s gadgets have been discreetly pocketed again.

Time to go. Alex turns to leave, and finds himself unexpectedly stumbling – his fall only stopped as his hand catches on one of the few racks still upright. With effort, he steadies himself, swaying on his feet, and only then does Alex look down for the first time at the place where Scruff had got him with the knife. He can't see the gash from here – the thick grey fabric of his jumpsuit is baggy enough to hide everything – but he presses gingerly at his side, trying to assess the damage. It feels wet. His fingertips come away smeared with red. If he allows himself to dwell on it, he can almost picture every beat of his heart pumping more blood out of his body in a sluggish stream. There’s already a dark stain on the jumpsuit, rapidly spreading.

This is bad. He could be bleeding out. Alex takes a deep breath to centre himself, ruthlessly suppressing the growing fear in his chest. Focus, Alex. Get a move on. He’s survived worse before. No need for hysterics now. His legs are still shakier than he would like, but Alex grits his teeth and starts heading to the exit.

On the way out, he pauses. He has one arm angled awkwardly over the gash at his side, trying to hide the spreading patch of blood, but it's a futile effort. He's going to be stopped by the first person to see him - and that's assuming there isn't a crowd of guards watching him through the surveillance cameras, ready to spring. It’s a miracle no one else has come yet.

Grimacing, Alex turns and makes his way back to the still-unconscious Scruff, and more importantly, the black jacket Scruff is wearing. He’s broader across the shoulders than Alex is, so it should be a comfortable fit.

Vertigo swims around Alex’s vision as he crouches down, but at least Scruff doesn't stir when Alex roughly turns him over, unzipping the jacket and easing it off his broad frame. The smell of musk and cheap cologne makes Alex wrinkle his nose as he shrugs on the jacket and zips it up. There. It's not perfect, and he's sure he sticks out like a sore thumb, but it's better than staggering out of the room with a bloodstain visibly blooming across his clothes.

Carefully, Alex makes his way back into the main building, trying to walk normally, but the effects of the wound are well and truly setting in. It’s a constant, tooth-grinding ache, and each step he takes sends a fresh burst of pain stabbing through his side, sharp enough to make his eyes water. The halogen lights blur in his vision. _Focus,_ he reminds himself, trying to match his laboured breathing to the slow, cautious steps he takes. One, two, in, out. Every impact of his foot against the ground seems to jolt all the way through his body, and once or twice he can’t quite manage to suppress a soft, pained noise.

Despite Alex’s best efforts, he knows he’s visibly favouring his injured side by the time he makes his way past the wet floor sign he had put up earlier, and worst of all, everything is being caught on the CCTV camera he sees mounted on the wall.

Really, it’s a miracle he hasn’t been intercepted yet, so Alex is resigned more than anything when he finally hears a rapid flurry of approaching footsteps. He glances around. Another thirty paces and he can round the corner, and from there it’s just a few metres to the fire exit where he can set off an alarm as distraction. Alex breaks into an ungainly run.

"Stop!"

Alex ducks his head and runs faster even as his side screams with pain. He rounds the corner–

There is a crack like a muffled thunderclap, followed by a heavy thud. The sound of a body hitting the floor. But the shot wasn’t aimed at Alex. So who…?

Then Alex’s entire world explodes into agony as somebody tackles him from the side. He grapples for purchase, but the man is too strong and the floor slippery – with a shout, Alex overbalances, sending the two of them crashing onto the ground.

The man pinning him down is heavy. His forearm is corded with muscle where he presses down on Alex's windpipe, expertly choking the breath out of him. A trained professional. But his eyes are feverishly bright, and Alex can smell the sour stench of sweat and fear.

"Call him off!" he screams into Alex's face. "Call off your partner!"

Alex's vision is going blurry. "I don't kno-"

Then there's another muffled crack, and suddenly, the world goes eerily still. The pressure lets up and Alex sucks in a deep breath. The man slumps on top of him.

Dead weight.

Footsteps again, this time slow and measured. Alex closes his eyes, wondering if he should try to play dead but knowing it's futile. He's in no condition to fight. Maybe this is the end of the line for him, but shock has numbed his fear; mostly, he's wondering about the last words of the dead man. _"Your partner?"_ MI6 hadn't assigned him any backup. This was meant to be an easy mission in a sleepy office with light security.

"Alex?"

_...Oh._

He knows that voice. Somehow, Alex finds himself unsurprised. It figures that this would keep happening to him. He sits up carefully, pushing the corpse away as he does, registering the slickness of blood and viscera against his hands but filing it away to be processed later – or never.

A shadow falls over Alex. Looking up, he meets the cool, remote eyes of Yassen Gregorovich.


	2. Chapter 2

Unexpectedly, Yassen smiles, just a flicker at the corners of his mouth, there and gone again. "I thought it was you."

"Yeah?" Alex finally extracts himself from underneath the body and clambers awkwardly to his feet. His side burns, but he resolutely ignores it, just as he ignores the temptation to lean against the wall behind him for support. "What are you doing here?"

"Working." Yassen appraises him with clinical dispassion, looking him over from head to toe. "You're injured."

"I'm fine," Alex says.

"Stay here."

And with that, Yassen slips away again. _Working,_ he had said, which, knowing Yassen, means more people are going to die. Alex looks at the two bodies on the floor, dark blood spreading over the floor tiles he had painstakingly cleaned barely an hour ago. He shivers, then winces, his hand going to his side again.

Whatever Yassen says, Alex isn't going to hang around. He only has the faintest outline of a plan in mind as he braces himself against the nearest wall for support and continues to make his way down the corridor, towards the fire exit like he originally planned. His real goal sits on the wall by the exit: a shiny red alarm, small and square, inset with a thin piece of glass that reads "Break in case of emergencies".

Alex hesitates for only a second before jabbing his thumb into the glass.

Immediately, the fragile pane shatters, the alarm shrilling through the building. Alex lets himself out through the exit and heads for the ground floor.

Probably it's a bad idea to get in Yassen's way while he's working, but Alex can't stomach the thought of quietly slinking off into the night while Yassen cuts his way through the building like a shark scything through still waters. If Alex can save even one person...

But nobody responds to the alarm. No burgeoning crowd jostles its way down the stairs, nobody congregates at the evacuation point to complain about false alarms and the toaster being left on again. There’s only a weighty silence, so heavy that it’s almost a physical presence.

Alex is the only one to head down the fire escape, heart plunging with every step he takes. By the time he reaches the streets below, all the hope had drained out of him and he slumps against the railing, taking a moment to collect himself. His panting breath mists in front of him in the February chill. He’s utterly alone. This is a quiet part of the city made even quieter by the late hour, and the silence is broken only by the occasional car roaring past, traveling well over the speed limit, glaring headlights cutting through the dark.

The light makes Alex wince and rests his forehead against the wall of the building, trying to fend off a throbbing headache. _Pull yourself together,_ he tells himself sternly, but now that he’s out of immediate danger, his body is stubbornly making all its aches and pains known, and the cold is sinking past the layers of his jacket and jumpsuit to leave him shivering. Numbly, Alex wraps his arms around himself. At least he’s no longer bleeding – he thinks. Alex can feel his shirt sticking to his side, the denim fibres joined to his skin by clotting blood, and every time he moves little pinpricks of pain flare against his side like a scab being peeled from raw skin.

He’s so _tired._ Every aching part of him longs to sink to the ground just for a minute and rest, but Alex knows one minute will turn into five then ten, until he’s found by some unfortunate person out for a late night stroll, and then Yassen will have one more body to add to his tally tonight.

_Yassen._ Weakly, Alex takes one laborious step forward. Then another. Walking seems to have become a whole new challenge. He clutches at his injured side, gritting his teeth against the pain as he staggers onwards. His car is parked a few blocks away – if he can only get there…

Alex doesn't even make it all the way down the block when he hears footsteps behind him. Stubbornly, he keeps walking, forcing himself to adjust his posture so that his spine is straight and his arms hang naturally against his sides. God knows what Yassen would do if he figures out how weak Alex is feeling right now. Yassen won't kill him, Alex knows that much – and takes strange comfort from that fact – but other than that, their relationship had always been one of murky lines and unclear boundaries. Yassen's first loyalty is always to himself and his professional reputation. It is a fact he has made _painfully_ clear in the previous times he and Alex encountered each other in the field.

"Where are you going, Alex?"

Alex keeps his head down and keeps walking.

_"Alex."_

Yassen keeps pace with him easily, a slim shadow flanking Alex. Is he going to follow him around all night? Alex just wants to get to his car and get home. Everything else can wait.

"You're hurt," Yassen says in that quiet, reasonable way of his.

It’s childish to keep up the silent treatment, but Alex can't get the utter stillness of the building out of his head. Even as the alarm had shrilled, not a single person had made their way to the exit. That wasn't normal. Even at this late hour, someone should have at least come out to see what was going on. The fact no one did…

Memories replay over and over again in Alex’s mind, fleeting impressions of white blood-spotted hallways and the cold bite of the railing under his hand, and all the words Alex wants to say get stuck in his throat. Sometimes Yassen shows him small kindnesses and he forgets what he truly is. A hired killer.

It's a dangerous mistake to make. Yassen's strange attachment to him – if attachment is the right word – won't last forever. Someday Yassen will decide he’s a liability, and then…

They make it to the end of the block. The pain is washing over Alex in renewed waves. He breathes shallowly through his mouth, pace slowing to a crawl, then he comes to a complete stop, resting one hand against the lamppost that stands at the corner of the street before the crossing. The metal is painfully cold under his bare fingers. All he wants to do is double over into himself and forget the world for a while.

"Alex?"

"Shut up," he says absently. Cold and injured, all his filters had eroded away. "You aren't helping."

Yassen moves to stand in front of him. They're of a height these days; Yassen doesn't have to bend down to look into Alex's eyes. His head tilts as he studies Alex.

Alex glares. "Look, can't you just leave me alone? You might want to get out of here, actually. That fire alarm is going to bring emergency services here any second."

"They won't be coming," Yassen says with calm certainty.

"...Oh." There goes one potential plan. Alex shakes his head, dismissing it, only to frown when the movement of his head sends staticky spots dancing around the edge of his vision. "So what are you doing here?"

"There are some answers I need from you. Once you tell me everything, I will let you go."

"No thanks," Alex says shortly. He gulps in another deep lungful of the bitingly cold air. The ground under his feet is swaying. Dimly, Alex wonders if an earthquake has started on top of everything else.

Yassen is _still_ looking at him. Alex struggles to read him. Is it disdain that Yassen is feeling right now, confronted by such visible evidence of Alex’s weakness? Disappointment? Or worse, apathy?

It’s so cold. Alex can’t stop shivering.

_If that’s all, then goodbye,_ Alex tries to say, but his lips are stiff and numb and the ground is rolling worse than ever. The world narrows down to small disjointed snippets of sensory information. Black sky, cold wind against his cheeks. A tickling sensation against his skin – more bleeding? Yassen’s lips are moving, but Alex can’t hear a single word…

The last thing Alex sees is Yassen lurching forward, his face paler than Alex has ever seen, as though he’s the one with all the blood draining out of him.

***

_Wake up,_ Alex's instincts scream at him. _Danger!_

Groggily, he tries to blink his eyes open, moaning fitfully as he tries to move his limbs. Tries to grab hold of something, anything, hands opening and closing helplessly – or is he even moving at all?

His body is rocking slightly, back and forth, back and forth, and dimly Alex realises he's in a car.

His eyelids are too heavy. All he sees is black and grey but he knows, instinctively, that _something_ is watching him. Alex’s training kicks in and he cries out, trying to alert someone, anyone – _help me, I’ve been kidnapped, help –_ but not a single sound comes out. Everything is so _heavy_. He tries to get up, but his limbs refuse to obey him. Panicked, Alex thrashes; he’s trapped inside his own body, he needs to wake up–

"Stop it," says a familiar voice, calm but tinged with exasperation.

Who…?

The voice speaks again. "Rest."

Alex’s head is too muddled to figure out who the voice belongs to, but some deep primal part of him associates it with safety. Slowly, he relaxes his tenuous grip on the waking world, allowing the darkness to carry him away.

***

Someone is shaking him by the shoulder, gentle but insistent. "Five more minutes," Alex mumbles, turning over to plaster his face into the pillow. He must have kicked his blankets off in his sleep. Eyes firmly closed, he gropes around for some blankets and pulls them up and over his body, relaxing into them with a contented sigh. Much better. The bed is warm but the air of the room feels cool around his face. It's the perfect temperature for sleeping in.

The shaking doesn't stop. Against his will, Alex tumbles into full wakefulness, and with it, his memories snap back into sharp focus. He had been on a mission. He had taken a knife across the ribs then passed out on that chilly grey street on the outskirts of London. Yassen had been there; he had wanted to talk. Which must mean...

Cautiously, he turns over again, cracking one eye open just a sliver. Sure enough, Yassen is the one leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder, still shaking him even though it must be obvious by now that Alex is awake.

Alex wonders how much longer he can keep his eyes closed and pretend to be asleep.

Unfortunately for him, Yassen runs out of patience. Alex grumbles in protest as Yassen briskly pulls the blankets away, but he has enough presence of mind to recognise that Yassen is being careful not to jostle him even as he mercilessly strips Alex from his comfortable cocoon.

"Sit up," Yassen instructs, in a voice that expects obedience.

Alex, reluctantly, opens his eyes and sits up, his side twinging painfully as he does.

The first thing he does is take in his surroundings. He’s in a comfortable bedroom, spacious but unremarkable, with a digital clock on the nightstand that reads 02:17. It feels like it should be later than that, but Alex supposes he should feel grateful he hadn’t been out of it for too long. Through the window he sees the night-time street outside is neatly lined with rows of identical, featureless apartment buildings. From the looks of it, they're currently up on the third or fourth floor. Yassen must be using a rental unit in a residential district as his base of operations, Alex guesses. And now he has Alex with him. Uneasily, he eyes the room for any _implements_ Yassen might be planning to use on him to extract the information he wants, but the bedroom is mercifully free of sharp objects and hammers and screws.

Yassen hands him a cup of water which Alex eyes doubtfully and declines with a small shake of his head and a grimace. Yassen doesn't insist, only sets it on the nightstand with a shrug. No hard feelings, Alex reckons – Yassen is even more paranoid than he is; he wouldn't accept a drink either if their positions were reversed. Come to think of it – did Yassen drug him tonight already, while he was passed out? Alex's memories are foggy, but he remembers some snatches of their car journey over to...wherever this is. He’d say that suffocating weight pressing down on his whole body couldn’t have been natural, but over the years he had suffered through enough bouts of sleep paralysis that had felt the exact same way.

For a long moment, they stare at each other. Yassen’s expression gives nothing away, but, as always, there’s something dark about him that sends Alex’s skin prickling.

"If you're going to interrogate me, you should just get it over with so I can get to a hospital," Alex mutters. His mouth is dry, an itching sensation at his gums. He's starting to regret declining the drink.

"Did you know I was going to be there tonight?"

"No. I would’ve been on the opposite side of the country if I knew."

"I thought so." Yassen half-smiles, then grows serious again. "And the people who gave you your orders, did they know?"

Did they? Alex remembers thinking it was strange that he was assigned such a quiet mission when MI6 usually prefers throwing him into high-stakes situations that need rapid improvisation, but aside from that, nothing had raised any red flags. Either he’s growing too complacent in his relationship with MI6 or they really had no idea Yassen would be there.

Alex has the sinking feeling that it’s the former option.

Whichever one it is, he knows better than to confide in Yassen. The assassin is too good at exploiting even the smallest of weaknesses. "If they knew, they didn’t share it with me," he says, and hopes that will be enough for Yassen.

But of course it isn’t. "So you think they knew."

"I didn’t say that."

"So you think they didn’t know?" Yassen presses, not letting Alex off the hook. His smile conveys the sense of a cat toying with its prey.

Alex exhales sharply, exasperated. "Did you want something else, or did you just bring me here to play games?"

"If you like," Yassen says, with a shift of his shoulders that might have been a shrug. "How are you feeling?"

If Alex is honest, he’s in a terrible state despite sleeping on the journey here, as wrung out as if he had just finished running a marathon – one where he had fallen halfway through then picked himself up to keep running with a face and body covered in bruises. At least he’s lucid enough to hold a conversation, but the haze of exhaustion stands as a wall between him and the rest of the world, casting a tinge of unreality on everything.

It doesn’t help that his side is beginning to hurt insistently again, a sharp hot pain radiating through his entire torso. With a start, Alex realises Yassen has taken the black jacket off him while he had been unconscious. Now the shapeless grey jumpsuit is in full display, and with it, the dark stain across the side. It’s larger than Alex had expected, and his stomach lurches at the thought of what the injury underneath must look like.

"…I’m fine," he says, but neither he nor Yassen believe it. "Can I go now?"

"No." Yassen turns in a fluid movement. "Stay here."

As Yassen disappears from the room, Alex looks around again, contemplating his chances of making a hasty escape. Maybe out the window, clambering down a conveniently placed drainpipe? A mad rush right through the front door? He hears the noise of running water from the next room. Now or never. Carefully, he climbs off the bed, heading for the door. His bare feet are soundless against the carpet. As he moves, he gropes around the pockets of the jumpsuit, wincing as the blood-matted fabric pulls against his skin. He comes up empty-handed. Yassen had taken his phone.

When Alex looks around for his shoes, he realises Yassen has hidden those somewhere too.

He presses ahead for the door anyway. But exhaustion makes him slower than he should be, and by the time he reaches the door, the sound of water coming from the bathroom has already stopped and a shift in the air makes Alex's instincts twitch.

Sure enough, when he turns around, he finds Yassen standing behind him, observing him with a small frown. His hands are full, a washbasin balanced on his right hand and a first aid kit held in his left. 

"You should go back to the bed, Alex."

With freedom so close at hand, Alex scowls mutinously. "Or what?"

"Why don’t you tell me? You’re injured. You’re alone and barefoot. You have no resources, no way of making contact with your employers." Yassen speaks softly and reasonably, every word more damning than the last. "What was your plan? Knock on each door until someone took pity on you?"

Alex’s ears burn. "Of course not." _You’d just kill whoever answers,_ he thinks resentfully, but good sense prevails for once and he holds his tongue.

"Bed," Yassen says again. This time Alex obeys.

By the time Alex makes it back to the bed, the ground under his feet is starting to feel unsteady again, vertigo making itself known in the form of churning nausea. Frustration prickles at him; how was he expecting to get anywhere, when even a short trip across the room tires him out so badly?

The answer, of course, is that Alex hadn't been thinking. Instinct had taken over. Like a lizard willing to sacrifice its own tail to escape, the only thing on Alex’s mind had been making a run for it regardless of the consequences.

Numbly, Alex sits on the bed. He reaches for the water basin, knowing that the jumpsuit needs a soak in warm water to get unstuck from his skin, but Yassen shakes his head.

"I know how to take care of myself," Alex protests. He's done it plenty of time before.

"The angle is awkward for you," Yassen points out. His hands are already busy soaking a towel in soapy water. Cautiously, he approaches, keeping a respectful distance between the two of them as he sits next to Alex on the bed.

After a long moment of hesitation, Alex moves his arm out of the way so Yassen can access his vulnerable side.

What follows is probably the most surreal series of moments in a night already wrapped in a vague, foggy sensation of unreality. Yassen is incredibly gentle as he runs the towel over the bloodied jumpsuit, careful not to get the cloth too wet. There's so much blood, Alex thinks dimly, watching spots of dark red wick over the fabric of the towel, then disperse in a rusty cloud when Yassen dips the towel back into the water. Once, Yassen goes to fetch a new basin of water. This time Alex stays put, eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall as he wonders if a blanket would help with the shock that is slowly setting in. Things were so much easier when he was asleep.

But eventually the jumpsuit comes free, the fabric unsticking from Alex’s side completely. Yassen watches him with focused intent as Alex unbuttons the front and gingerly shrugs it off his shoulders, doing his best to avoid opening the laceration again. The thin white T-shirt he wears underneath goes the same way. Despite his best efforts, by the time Alex gets all his ruined clothing out of the way, the cut is beginning to ooze blood again, little droplets tickling his skin as they slowly drip down his ribcage and down his exposed torso.

Yassen must know how vulnerable he feels, because he wordlessly hands Alex some gauze instead of tending to Alex himself. Alex takes it with a muttered thanks. Gritting his teeth, he applies pressure on the cut, but even though he braces himself for pain, the initial sting still makes him flinch. Alex closes his eyes, exhaling slowly, then shakily takes in a deep breath. He's not even at the worst part yet. The wound still needs to be washed out, and he doesn't know if Yassen will insist on stitching him up.

"That should be enough to stop the bleeding," Yassen says after several moments. Sure enough, when Alex opens his eyes again and carefully lifts the gauze compress, no fresh blood comes welling out of the wound.

With a soft splash, Yassen soaks the towel in the basin again, then wrings it dry of excess water. There's a powerful temptation to grab the towel from Yassen and tend to himself, but as Yassen's already pointed out, the angle is incredibly awkward; Alex has to crane his neck and rotate his shoulder just to see the site of the injury.

"Sit still," Yassen orders when Alex twists around to look anyway. "I won't be long."

Alex sets his jaw and nods. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle as Yassen settles closer beside him. It's impossible to overlook the fact that he's in the presence of a killer, but Yassen moves cautiously and telegraphs his every move, and his hands are gentle as he presses the damp towel against Alex's side.

Alex expects the next few minutes to be an excruciating experience, full of sharp stings and the threatening brush of Yassen's long, deadly fingers. The reality is – _different._ The pain comes as anticipated, a constant sharp burn that dulls into a throbbing ache, but at least the water is warm, the soap mild. It's Yassen who catches him by surprise. Alex had braced himself for a brisk and efficient wash, not this thorough, methodical care. Yassen works at an unhurried pace, meticulously rinsing away every trace of the dried blood flaking against Alex's skin. Even when Alex swears and clutches at the bedsheets, his skin going ashen with pain as Yassen cleans out the wound's surface with trickling water, Yassen doesn't reprimand him for his loss of control.

Slowly but surely, the nervous tension uncoils from Alex's limbs and he relaxes into Yassen's touch, skin tingling pleasantly under the gentle wash when Yassen moves on to clean the area around the cut, careful not to aggravate the cut itself. This can't be normal, Alex thinks dimly. Nobody should be at ease with a trained assassin so close. Yassen could easily start torturing him for state secrets now and there'd be nothing Alex could do about it. If Alex has any sense, he'd be on high alert, ready to move away at a moment's notice.

His body doesn't seem to get the memo.

When Yassen finally pulls away, Alex stirs, then jerks to attention at once, his entire body jolting as though he's snapping out of a trance. He covers it up with a muffled cough, turning away awkwardly. "Are we done?"

"Almost. I'll put a temporary dressing on it."

While Yassen is busy putting away the washbasin and towel, Alex gives in to the temptation to take a peek at the laceration. He immediately wishes he hadn't. With all the blood cleared away, his eyes are irresistibly drawn to the pallid, peeled-back skin around the edges of the cut – and worst of all, the glistening red of exposed muscle tissue underneath. Alex's stomach churns. He's been injured worse than this and he's seen his fair share of violence out on the field, but the sight of his own slashed skin never gets easier.

At least they're almost done here. Yassen returns with some ointment; Alex sits still and tries not to shiver as Yassen's fingers rub against his skin, spreading the cream evenly. Afterwards comes a long gauze bandage that Yassen applies with quick, practiced motions, securing everything into place with surgical tape. 

"You were lucky," Yassen comments, once all the medical supplies have been cleared away. He hands Alex a clean spare shirt with all the labels removed. "It's a clean cut."

Alex doesn't feel very lucky. "How deep?" He puts on the shirt; it's a little tight around the shoulders, but otherwise a surprisingly good fit.

"Enough to need stitches once you get to the hospital. But it should heal without complications, as long as it doesn't get infected - and you don't pull your stitches open."

It could be much worse, Alex knows, but his brain is still caught on the first part of Yassen's matter of fact words. "You're just letting me go? I can head to the hospital now?"

"Soon." Yassen suddenly smiles, a flash of sly humour, there and gone again. "Think of it as your birthday present."

What?

Alex looks at the clock. Sure enough, it's nearing three in the morning. Midnight had passed long ago. It's now the thirteenth of February.

It's his birthday. He had completely forgotten.

"Oh. Thanks." His voice seems to come from far away. Must be the shock setting in again.

"How old are you now? Twenty-one?"

"Yeah."

Alex looks down at his hands and the flakes of dried blood collecting under his fingernails and in the whorls of his fingertips. Twenty-one, and what's changed since he was fourteen, eighteen, twenty? He never expected to live long enough to see his eighteenth. Then he never expected to see his twenties. But time kept marching on, and he kept evading death by the skin of his teeth, and now... Here he is. Stuck in the same room as an assassin that has spent the past half-hour tending to him with more care than anyone had shown him in weeks.

His life is so fucked up.

Yassen's thoughts must have gone down similar paths. "Happy birthday, Alex. It is an achievement to be proud of."

"Is it," Alex mutters before he can stop himself.

"Of course. Many people do not make it this long in our field. Child soldiers, even less so."

"I’m not…" Taking a deep breath, Alex shakes his head. "That isn’t me anymore."

And that’s the crux of the whole problem, isn’t it? When you expect to die long before adulthood, you go through life with the sort of daredevil recklessness that gets the job _done_. And then all those missions build into a reputation – Alex Rider: child spy extraordinaire!

But time inevitably marches onward. Before Alex realizes it, he grows up, just another nameless agent in the deep murky sea of the intelligence world. The youth he had relied on for all those impossible feats is no longer his weapon to use. These days, Alex is tall and broad around the shoulders, with weary lines around his eyes that make him look older than he really is – no chance he can pass as a harmless teenager anymore. His greatest advantage is gone. The world continues to turn and Alex Rider, former child spy, fades into obscurity.

And what is Alex left with? He’s barely in his twenties – supposedly the prime of his life – but already he wakes up in the middle of the night to chronic pains, old scars hurting anew as the cold weather beats mercilessly outside his window.

_Happy twenty-first,_ he thinks hollowly.

Yassen is watching him again. There’s a small furrow in his brow, a tightness at the corners of his mouth – on any other man, it would be a look of intense concentration. "I will let you go now," he says slowly, deliberately, "if you tell me one thing."

"What is it?" Alex can hear the wariness in his voice.

Yassen looks contemplative. "Twenty-one. A proper adult, in some parts of the world." He cocks his head, appraising Alex with cool eyes. "I think you will be lucky to make it to twenty-two."

Alex’s heartbeat picks up. _A proper adult._ There it is, just as he had expected all along. A death knell. The glamour of the child spy has faded; Alex has finally worn out his welcome. His fingers twist at the bedsheets as he plots his next course of action. His handler will have to be alerted – they can’t rely on Yassen’s strange fascination with him any more to stay his hand in the field. Will he be believed? Maybe he’ll have to take his case directly to Jones.

Yassen’s frown deepens. The analytical part of Alex’s mind notes that he had never seen Yassen quite this openly troubled before. "Alex, you’re experienced enough to know you suffered a serious stab wound. You were going into shock. It was too late for you to make a difference. Your solution was to leave anyway, on foot, in the middle of winter. Why?"

Oh, no. No, they’re not talking about this. Alex's hackles raise defensively. "What else was I supposed to do? I wasn’t going to hang around waiting for you to finish."

"You had your phone. You could have called for assistance."

"So you can take out whoever comes to help? No thanks."

"Or they could have taken me out," Yassen points out reasonably. "I was working on my own. Unless," the corners of his mouth turn upwards again, "you didn’t want that to happen?"

He should want Yassen brought to justice even if it means never seeing the Russian again; Alex can’t afford to forget that the same graceful hands which had tended to his wounds so carefully had, not even two hours ago, been handling a gun with ruthless precision. Yassen shouldn't be allowed to walk free – and yet, somehow, Alex never manages to apprehend him even when opportunities present themselves. In their past encounters he's had Yassen cornered – or Yassen had him cornered – but in the end they had always let one another go, adhering to the strange, unofficial truce that had developed between them over years of confrontations: no death, no permanent maiming, no long-term captivity.

But their unspoken agreement wasn’t the main reason Alex neglected to call for backup earlier, although Alex can live with it if Yassen chooses to interpret the situation that way. It’s better than having Yassen dig deeper in search of the truth. "Sure, let’s go with that," he says, injecting as much sarcasm as possible.

He must have hesitated for a second too long. Yassen looks thoughtful – Alex feels a curl of dread as he recognises the curious expression on his face. Yassen with a puzzle in front of him is the type to never let go.

Right. Enough of that. Alex gets to his feet, and as expected, Yassen intercepts him instantly, using his own body to block Alex’s way.

"Let me go," Alex snaps. "You promised."

" _You_ promised," Yassen counters. "Answer my question and I will let you go. I will even drive you to the hospital myself if you like."

"I gave you an answer. If you didn't like it–"

"You didn't give me the full truth."

"How would you know?" Defensiveness prickles hotly under Alex’s skin, transforming rapidly to anger. He squares his shoulders. He meets Yassen's gaze squarely, knowing any weakness will be seized on at once. He can't tell Yassen the truth. He can't.

Yassen doesn't answer immediately. His head tilts as he studies Alex with glacial blue eyes, seemingly unaffected by Alex's outburst. He waits.

The silence stretches between them.

"Should I start guessing?" Yassen asks at last. Alex stubbornly keeps his mouth shut, so Yassen continues. "The blood loss was affecting you. You weren't thinking straight; you were acting on instinct."

"Sure. Whatever you say."

"No," Yassen dismisses. He tries again. "You were trying to avoid me. You don’t trust me."

Alex scowls, folding his arms. They are standing chest-to-chest, neither of them backing down. "You're not giving me much reason to."

"That is the most sensible thing you’ve said all night," Yassen says approvingly, and Alex, unwillingly, cracks a small smile. It immediately disappears when Yassen adds: "You're only delaying the inevitable, Alex. You are very tired. You still need medical attention." His voice dips low and intimate. Honey rather than vinegar. "You can end this any time you like."

Yassen may be a trained interrogator, but he's not using the nastiest of his techniques, and Alex has survived the past six years through pure stubbornness and spite. He drops back onto the bed and folds his arms, turning his head away. Normally he wouldn't stretch Yassen's patience this much, but something reckless burns in his blood tonight. Maybe it's the confirmation that Yassen thinks he won't hit twenty-two. Alex had suspected it for a long time but it's another thing to hear it put into words – a loss of faith, a suggestion that Yassen's inexplicable fascination with him has finally reached its end. It's no surprise, Alex thinks, with no small amount of bitterness. He's an adult now, no longer MI6's precious child spy. There's nothing remarkable about him anymore.

Annoyingly enough, Yassen stays standing, staring down at Alex like he's observing a particularly fascinating specimen. "It must be very serious for you to be acting this way." His eyes narrow. "Was it something to do with your mission?"

Better head off _that_ train of thought before somebody gets killed or one of MI6's buildings gets bombed – again. "No."

"Something personal, then."

Yassen sounds entirely too certain of his conclusion.

"Something you feel very strongly about," Yassen continues, far too interested for Alex's liking. "You were afraid."

Tuning him out, Alex focuses on some meditation exercises. 

"Someone you knew was in danger."

It’s been a while since he last tried to clear his mind. He's rusty. How does he start off again? Something about counting breaths?

"No, if that was the case, you wouldn't be sitting here with me," Yassen says, still thinking aloud.

It's almost like he's in a session with his therapist, Alex reflects sourly, before remembering he's meant to be focusing on his breathing and not be thinking about anything else. Easier said than done when every rise and fall of his chest brings a renewed twinging pain in his side.

"You said you were fine, and you weren't," Yassen continues to muse. "I told you to stay, and you didn't."

A defensive retort prickles on the tip of Alex's tongue, but he swallows it down. Calm, deep breaths.

"What made you run from me, little Alex?"

Yassen hasn't called him that in years.

"Were you ashamed?"

Alex can't help it; he twitches. Yassen's eyes miss nothing.

"Explain."

Alex wishes, desperately, he were anywhere but here. He's tired; his side hurts; he's thirsty and light-headed; and, worst of all, he knows Yassen is capable of sitting there all night and waiting him out until he cracks. "Have you ever thought maybe you're jumping to conclusions?" he bites out, determined not to go down without a fight.

"Not in this case," Yassen says without missing a beat. His tone is even. For someone with a notoriously low tolerance for foolishness, his current patience with Alex's obstinance is remarkable. Maybe it's Alex's slightly woozy state, but the usual edge of danger Yassen carries with him seems – _softened_ , somehow. He's frowning, studying Alex as if he's having trouble making him out. "Your pride was stung," Yassen guesses, but for the first time there is the faintest hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Alex can't help himself; he lets out a harsh bark of laughter. "Pride? What do I have to be proud of?"

There's a sweep of long blond lashes against fair skin as Yassen blinks and goes completely still. Alex can tell he's caught Yassen by surprise. At once, he regrets saying anything.

A long silence follows.

It's hard to look at Yassen. Alex's gaze drops. Sitting there, staring at his hands, Alex can feel his cheeks heat with renewed shame. He tries the breathing exercises again, but they only make him aware of the painful lump that has thickened in his throat. He wishes Yassen would say something.

"I didn't want you to see, that's all," he mutters eventually, desperate to break the silence. Anything to get the heavy weight of Yassen's judgement off him. "I thought…"

Still Yassen waits him out.

Raggedly, Alex draws in a deep breath then releases it with a sigh. He knows when he's beaten. "You were going to give up on me soon anyway." He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance, but he can hear the hollowness in his own voice. "No point putting the final nail in the coffin any earlier than I had to. That's all."

When Yassen doesn't respond, Alex sneaks a glance up at him, only to discover he looks more perplexed than Alex had ever seen him. "Explain again. Slower, this time."

There's a twisting sensation in the pit of Alex's stomach: the suspicion that, maybe, he's missed something important. He _hates_ it. "You can stop pretending any time you want, all right?" he snaps. It's easier to get angry than explain all his inadequacies in slow, excruciating detail. "You said it yourself! I'm a full adult now. I'm not your charity case anymore."

The silence is damning.

"…Charity case." Yassen doesn't quite sigh, but the implication of it is there. "Alex. Is that what you really think?"

Alex's ears burn. "Shut up."

"No. We are discussing this. Immediately." Even now, Alex is reluctantly impressed by Yassen's absolute control over his tells. He can't glean a single thing from Yassen's expression as he deliberates over his next words. "You seem to have internalised some misconceptions," Yassen says at last. "Severe ones. What did you think would happen if I saw you injured?"

Scowling, Alex hunches into himself. "Can't we drop this already?" He doesn't even have a proper answer he can give to Yassen's question: no way of articulating that vague, nameless dread he's been feeling more and more of late that, one day, Yassen will decide Alex is no longer worth his time, and that seeing him injured - and weak - will serve as a catalyst for that moment.

Yassen tilts his head. "You believed I would think less of you," he deduces. "You thought I would see your injury as a lack of skill."

Alex doesn't trust himself to speak.

"You would be wrong," Yassen tells him, calm and direct, without a single hint of artifice. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, Alex forces himself to raise his head. Yassen is still standing in front of him, a touch closer than usual. Right before Alex's surprised eyes, he shrugs off his dark overcoat, revealing a plain, high-collared shirt underneath. Alex's jaw goes slack as Yassen takes _that_ off as well, stripping efficiently with a flex of his torso and tugging the shirt up and over his head with unselfconscious grace.

Underneath, Yassen is the same as ever: a lean dancer's body, well-proportioned, muscular but compact. Alex's eyes skim over the pale skin on display. As always, the first thing he's drawn to is the thin white scar across Yassen's neck, ruler-straight.

The next is the mass of scar tissue on Yassen's chest where Cray had shot him. It had faded over the years, going from red and raw to fibrotic white.

Then Alex forces himself to lean back and take in the full picture. Yassen is doing this for a reason. He looks again, slow and analytical, examining every inch of the body on display in front of him. For the first time, he sees the extent of the scars that dot and cross the pale skin, a living record of past injuries.

Then Yassen turns, and Alex sees the large gauze bandage wrapping from the middle of his back to curve around his side. There are spots of darker colour among the white – dried blood. The wound is a recent one.

Satisfied that Alex had looked his fill, Yassen pulls his shirt back on, once more covering up his scarred skin. "Injuries are a regular part of our profession," he tells Alex, matter of fact. "If you are lucky, it will not be fatal. And if you are very lucky, you will not suffer a permanently debilitating injury before you are ready to retire."

Alex's tongue darts out, wetting his dry lips. "You're saying I was worrying over nothing."

Yassen deliberates for a moment, then gives a small shake of his head. "You were wise to consider the risks of letting a rival operative know you were physically compromised," he concedes. "But in this case, it was unnecessary. And certainly not hiding to the point of collapse. Something to remember for the future."

"Oh." He feels numb, as though shock is setting in again, but he's pretty sure he isn't bleeding any more so it can't be from renewed blood loss.

Maybe it's just everything tonight catching up to him at once. The pain his side is still there, like a constant, wearing ache. But something very tight around his chest feels like it's eased; he feels like he can finally breathe more easily again. Yassen's mention of the future hangs in the air, and Alex wonders if he should be offended or reassured that Yassen thinks they'll be here again – on another operation, in another country perhaps, with Alex needing help and Yassen... there to give it. Maybe.

It's enough for now.

Alex suddenly finds himself yawning – a massive yawn that stretches on and on until Alex can almost feel his jaw crack. Pain and anxiety is giving way rapidly to a desire to sleep. The bed is awfully comfortable; if he could just lie down...

Yassen watches, amused. "This is enough for one night, I think," he decides. "As promised, I will take you to the hospital."

"Uh-huh." Alex almost wants to protest for the sake of it, but his eyelids are drooping and another yawn is rocking through him. Wearily, he clambers to his feet. It would be nice to doze off and forget the world for an hour or two, but independence is a hard habit to break. "Don't you have other things to be getting on with? I can find transport myself."

"Nothing important," Yassen says dismissively. "Come."

Alex, much to his own surprise, follows without further objections. It's not a terrible start to twenty-one, he decides as he buckles himself into the car seat a few minutes later, the hum of the engine vibrating through him as Yassen turns the key in the ignition. In fact, he's feeling daring enough to hope – cautiously – that twenty-two might be even better once he gets there.


End file.
